Drivethrough
by infiniteviking
Summary: When his VRod breaks down on the way to Alkali Lake, Scott Summers is forced to reevaluate his reasons for pursuing Jean's phantom voice. Oneshot, set during X3.


Written for Sasha-B by way of Brynnmck's Livejournal Friendship Ficathon. Apologies for any technical inconsistencies -- I don't know much about bikes!

**Drivethrough**

It was lonely, the drive to Alkali Lake. The summer was dying and the road was long and high, running through pockets of night-chilled air that the morning winds had not reached. The last trip, by air, had been shorter, almost surreal -- the transition from frozen death to bright civilization as brief as walking through a door. As if it were easy, escaping Alkali Lake.

The man on the pumped-up Harley, retracing his steps at only eighty-five per, felt every mile rip out from under him like fortresses crumbling away.

Scott Summers didn't like the woods. He'd never liked the woods, never liked hiking or fishing or camping or any form of woodcraft. He liked people and ideas, logic and responsibility and fast bikes. 'Boy Scout', they had called him, but it was more than just a title. It was what he wanted to be: the strong one, the smart one, the clean-cut hero whose loyalties would never change. Once it was all he lived for. Later he'd lived for Jean. He hadn't decided yet whether that had been a mistake: mostly because it hurt too much to think about.

The motor stuttered. Scott eased up on the throttle, feeling it catch again. It had been running badly for weeks -- blasted Wolverine, always stealing his bike. The man could at least have given it a tune-up, done something to pay for his temerity instead of taking Scott's classes and invading his personal life. Something to square himself, as an associate would; not ingratiate himself, like a friend. He'd have liked to think that Logan had pushed him over the edge with his all-too-personal criticism -- _get over it; get back in the game_ -- as though death was a normal thing that happened occasionally. It was no good, though; self-deception had never worked for Scott. He'd been over the edge since Alkali Lake, and the worst part was the people who pretended he shouldn't have changed.

Scott Summers was no longer a Boy Scout. Responsibility meant nothing to him now. (_She_ was responsible, and where did it get her?) He scarcely slept; he barely ate; he seldom shaved; his throat felt constantly swollen with the tears he couldn't let out. He avoided his friends -- couldn't stand their pitying eyes. Every glance felt like a condemnation, every word fell like a blow to his ragged heart; he lashed back, furious, defensive, irrational, and they all learnt to stay away.

He'd scared himself, grieving. Even the Professor was giving him space. It was probably painful just to be near him. Logan alone had dared confront him, and for once the big hairy jerk was probably right. Unfortunately Scott no longer cared. He couldn't count the times he'd started out of his dreams with acres of water thundering into his mind and her soft voice calling his name from a thousand directions, but Jean was dead and he was hallucinating, a nervous wreck with ghosts in his head that refused to leave him alone.

And now he was halfway to Alkali Lake, gone without a word to anyone.

What did they care? They probably thought he'd gone off to _find himself_. Well, let them pretend to think.

_Scott. Scott scott scott scott scott..._

The whispers ran over his mind like sandpaper, touching up the wound's edges, keeping him raw.

He put on more speed, and his rear tire gave way with a gunfire crack. Sparks shot from the wheel. With a guttural snarl, Scott slewed violently sideways, nearly facing the other way as he raked his bike to a stop.

The forest's silence closed around him like a shroud, heavy and damp with impending rain. He couldn't breathe. He slid down beside the wheel, running his fingers over the scarred rim, clenching his muscles against the tremors racking his thin frame. His hands, operating instinctively, freed the toolkit from his saddlebag, and from some cognitive distance he was faintly surprised that he had remembered to bring it.

The mundane familiarity of the heavy, pebbled plastic froze his soul like the touch of a dead hand.

"I don't know, Jean," he whispered. Tears, flash-heated by the fire behind his ruddy glasses, burned their way down his cheeks. "Make up your mind. What am I going to do, if you can't stay with me? Jean, I'm broken, Jean, what do I do?"

He shivered, remembering the wheel, and opened the kit.

There was a scrap of notepaper taped inside the lid, right where he would have seen it the first time he'd bothered to tune the Harley. Scott cursed violently and shoved the box away, sending tools and parts spinning out over the pavement.

_Sometimes you gotta take time off to fix things_.

Logan -- it had to be him. Terse, laconic, unequivocal and unsigned, no _good luck_ or _hang in there_ or _see you later_. Wolverine through and through.

The trees loomed around him, solemn and somehow quizzical, a vast and curious uniformity of a piece with the memory of Jean's gentle voice. The echoes of rolling metal melted into the cushion of motionless air. Logan's note, just visible in the overturned kit, was the loudest thing on the road until Scott realized that he was crying.

Slowly he gathered his tools, cleaned them off and put them away, made up a patch for his tire, closed his eyes and took off his glasses, rubbed the tears away, let the cool wind run over his face.

_Scott_...

"All right." His voice felt clumsy, another disused tool. "I'm coming, Jean. We'll talk."

There could be no settlement, no reconciliation, standing on the edge of nothing with only ghosts for company. Resolution was an act of consensus, something you did with people, and Jean wasn't people, not anymore. He was already everything she'd left behind. Some things could be broken and some things fixed, but in the end, after all, it was only himself on the road.

Carefully, methodically, Scott pumped up the wheel. Automatically he buffed the rim, and smiled faintly at the simplicity of the act.

Wind-slapped branches conspired overhead. Birds scattered as Scott kicked his bike back in gear and turned it back into the road. Alkali Lake was no more than fifty miles away: tree-hemmed, rock-encrusted, lapping hungrily at the hills, a crazed, unfocused mirror crushed under a vast gray sky.

At the very least, it would be something to see.

And something -- much later -- to share with a friend.

-----


End file.
